


(pink)

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Swap, Bottom Dean, Crying, Dean in Panties, Experimental Style, Face-Fucking, M/M, Older Sam, PWP, Rimming, Rough Sex, Younger Dean, belly bulge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5896588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean used to love pink. The faded soft pink of a nice bath towel they were given by a lady that had baby sat them for a few weeks. The pink of blooming tea cup roses outside in the sunny church garden when they visited Pastor Jim. The pink of stolen cotton candy at a carnival they snuck in, sticky and sweet and gone too soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(pink)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/gifts).



They’re pink.

And satiny.

Sam’s had them stashed in his pocket since breakfast. Waiting. He’s not sure if there really is a ‘right moment’, but maybe he just has to work up the balls for it. He’s thought about it a lot since he found them in the bottom of Dean’s duffel a few days ago. Sliding a hand into his pocket while he sits at the scratched wood table that has a wobbly leg, Sam rubs them between his fingers and wonders.

Where his little brother got them. Why. (if anyone else saw him in them)

Sam can’t help it.

“Dude, what is up with you?”

Dean’s cleaning guns on one of the beds, oil stained rag spread out under them as he strips them with efficient ease. A sixteen year old shouldn’t be that good with a gun.

Sam flips a page of his book and scoffs. “Nothing.”

Dean rolls his eyes, an old black and white western playing fuzzy with bad reception on the tiny tv across from the bed. The wind is so loud outside you can hear it whistle, and Sam’s kind of going crazy being stuck inside with Dean for three days now because the snow’s piled so high it’ll bury you when the wind shifts. Not like Dean cares that he’s missing school. Tried to drop out earlier that year but Sam wouldn’t let him. Sometimes Sam feels like he’s more the parent, trying to keep Dean in school when he all he wants to do is skip and hang with the wrong crowd, (Dad, ha), to go ‘party’, (hunting, actually).

Sam still can’t believe Dad gave Dean the Impala for his birthday a few weeks ago. So far, it only seems to mean that Dad can take off in his own truck now and leave them behind for longer stretches than usual. Sam’s not sure that’ll be so bad.

“You cut a hole in your pocket so you can jerk off watching me or something, Sammy?”

“Fuck you.”

Fine. The moment’s right enough. Sam pulls the pink satin bikini briefs out and flings them at Dean’s head. To Dean’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch in recognition or give Sam any satisfaction. Probably knew it was coming though; Sam’s had them a few days and Dean more than likely noticed them missing. He can be really defensive about some things like that.

“I don’t know, these look kind of small for you,” Dean snarks, and he’s still focused on his work.

Sam hasn’t seen a single word on the page in front of him. “Where did you get them?”

Dean looks up at that, the panties settled over faded jeans on his thighs instead of tossed away. “You’re such a bitch.”

Sam can clearly remember the first time a little barely knee high Dean said the word ‘bitch’ and Dad scrubbed his mouth out with soap.

“Jerk. Tell me where you got them.”

“You remember Rhonda, couple towns back?”

“Seriously? Missing half her teeth Rhonda?”

“Two teeth, she was missing two teeth Sam. And you didn’t see her pussy, more than made up for it.”

“Dammit, Dean, why are you such an asshole.”

It’s not really a question.

Dean still answers, “Cause I got a brother like you.”

It’s not fair. Sam doesn’t think it is. He tries to remind himself that Dean’s just a moody teenager, but yeah, Sam is barely out of the teen years himself. And he’s still got a few crumpled and torn pamphlets shoved far down in his duffel covered in dirty underwear and very much not forgotten about, with names like ‘Ohio State’, ‘Vassar’, ‘Stanford’ on them. Sam told himself a lot of people take a year off between high school and college. It’s two years now. Every time he asks – wheedles, begs, pleads – Dean refuses to even think about running away with Sam. So he’s still here, taking odd jobs, getting in shouting matches with Dad when he refuses to go on a hunt, and the thing that keeps him strung along is sitting right in front of him. Being an annoying, bratty jerk.

Sam’s pathetic.

(he also loves his brother so much in every way he can that it hurts)

“Did you at least use protection?”

He gets it. Fucking your brother is one thing. Being…. what? In a relationship? Going steady? That’s kind of… it’s weird, they’re weird. So they don’t really talk about it if Dean goes after every girl that batts their eye lashes at him. (and they don’t talk about it if Sam never goes after anyone else)

Dean looks up at that and glares. “Yes, _Dad_ , I’m not stupid.”

Sam slides his book away, quiet shush as it scoots over the table and he’s pushing his chair out with a scrape, socked feet quiet on thin carpet. He sits on the unoccupied bed across from Dean and Dean’s back to the guns, reassembling them, pink satin a bright little spot of color in his lap among the denim and olive green shirt and his winter pale hands that still have a smattering of freckles across the knuckles.

Dean used to love pink. The faded soft pink of a nice bath towel they were given by a lady that had baby sat them for a few weeks. The pink of blooming tea cup roses outside in the sunny church garden when they visited Pastor Jim. The pink of stolen cotton candy at a carnival they snuck in, sticky and sweet and gone too soon.

Dean used to love pink, before he learned he wasn’t supposed to. (and believed it)

Laying down to curl on his side, mattress dipping with his weight, Sam watches when Dean sets his reassembled Colt in front of him, hand drifting idly to the soft satin in his lap. Sam kind of hates it when Dean calls him ‘Dad’. He kind of resents the responsibility he’s been given, even if he struggles to wrest it from John when he feels like Dean isn’t being taken care of right.

“Why don’t you wear them for me?”

That gets Dean’s attention.

“That’s just weird, Sam.”

There’s a pastel pink flush spreading on his cheeks. A lot of anger in his eyes. He’s been real cranky since Dad took off. Can’t blame him. Dad wanted to take Dean and Sam with him, there was still a few days of winter break left, and Dean’s duffel was half packed before Sam refused to go. Dean’s always moody when he doesn’t get to go along, but Sam doesn’t know why he wants to.

“Then why do you still keep them?”

Dean’s got a pretty good poker face, a pretty mean scowl when he wants to. But he still has his tells. Forefinger and thumb pinching the soft material and running along the elastic waist with a little fringe of lace, lingering at the small bow in the center. Fidgeting. He’s thinking about it, Sam’s just got to wait him out.

They’re just a pair of panties. It’s not something he’s thought about before. Sam worships Dean’s naked body, lean and smooth even though he’s sixteen and by now there’s soft downy hair between his legs but only the faintest trail up to his navel, absolutely nothing across his chest. He shaves, but there’s barely more than peach fuzz on his cheeks, smooth and narrow, sharp jaw, plush lips. Why would Sam want to see anything else but his brother laid out vulnerable for him, cock hard against his belly and wrists pinned above his head in Sam’s large hands.

Only, the way Dean flushes, the way his shoulders hunch just a little, the way his voice comes a little higher when he says – petulantly – “I don’t know…”

Oh, Sam might like this for more than just a tease.

The thing is, he half expected Dean to just take the easy way out and say that they were Rhonda’s, that he’d kept them as a trophy, that they still smell like her - anything to justify keeping them, really. But Dean hasn’t said a single word to the contrary when Sam implied they were _his_ , or at least, for him. This quiet shyness about Dean that still comes out when his defenses are thin, it sends a hot shiver under Sam’s skin.

Impulsively, Sam reaches up to where the amulet he always wears droops off his chest onto the mattress, little pointy horns hard in his palm. Dean used to be such a sweet kid, cotton candy sweet, when Dad was still trying to hide everything from him and Sam was only too eager to go along with it. It was snowing then too, bitter and cruel, and Sam was too young to take care of the both of them stranded for a week but he did. He never wanted Dean to find out about the monsters in the shadows, but he was never good at hiding anything from his little brother.

Dean’s eyes track the movement of his hand, playing idly with his amulet, and Sam waits him out quietly. Dean is a restless force of nature, destructive and sudden. Sam can read texts and play connect the dots - no mother, migratory childhood, poverty, exposure to violence.

(have I made him this)

And they’re both stunted aren’t they, both fucked up, trees grown slanted in a constant wind, but they’re both like this. Together.

(who let’s a child raise a child)

Dean half turns towards the bathroom door with the panties clutched in his hand, gets one step taken in the space between their beds, when Sam snags a finger through the loop on his jeans. Tugs him closer. Pops the button.

“You can change in front of me.”

He does all the time. Teases Sam. Flaunts himself, really, there’s nothing innocent or shy about how Dean struts. (even if he’s still short and skinny, his ego makes up for that). But right now, there’s something hesitant in his motions, as he strips efficiently and quickly. Tee tugged over his head and tossed behind him, landing messily on the bed still strewn with organized cleaning supplies and guns, jeans dropped and kicked aside.

Dean has muscle, he’s almost good enough to pin Sam, but he’s whip cord thin, narrow like a slip of paper. He eats like he’s got a bottomless pit for a stomach and Sam tries to keep up, keep him fed, but he’s still so tiny he almost seems frail next to Sam’s height and girth. He’s strong. He’s got a mean streak in a fight and a deep built need to prove himself.

Hunched over, though, shoulders curling in as he pulls on the thin slip of pink material, tuck himself in (and his hands move like’s done this before, gets himself situated in them pretty, sizeable, Sam’s mouth waters), Dean looks even smaller when he’s not puffing himself up to fill the whole room with his presence.

His voice is whisper quiet, fingers tracing over the scalloped lace waist, “… looks silly.”

(virgins and sluts blush the same color)

And Sam can hear under it, not so much ‘the panties look silly’ but really ‘I look silly’. Sitting on the edge of the bed watching his brother, heat blooming under his ribs (spreading lower), Sam reaches out to settle his wide hands on Dean’s hips and cover his own over the panties. “I like it.”

(I like them on you)

Leans forward, kiss to Dean’s flat stomach, very shallow ridges of muscles rising and Dean works, works, works himself sweaty and shaky trying to bulk up, trying so hard to be enough, but his stomach is flat and his limbs are lithe and he’s still the small little brother Sam knows even if Sam knows that Dean’s on the cusp and he won’t be long to push over the edge. Dad’s making him into something else, a weapon, has had a better time trying his hand on Dean than he ever did on Sam. No, Sam pushed back too hard, never quite fit into the box Dad wanted to put him in. But Dean. Dean’s a contortionist.

Looking up the lean stretch of Dean’s body, Sam can see the wet shimmer of wanting in pretty eyes when he says, more assuredly, “I like them on you.”

Circling his hands around Dean’s waist, sliding back to settle in the dip of his back, Sam feels like there are too many rough callouses on him to touch Dean. He’s always felt like he was too much. Not what Dean needs. (what he wants) Argumentative. Huge. Clumsy.

Pushing his fingers down between the hem of satin and Dean’s even smoother skin, Sam kisses at the warmth of his belly and nips around the circle of his navel, trailing over the curve of his hip bone (too bony) and plucking at the fine material with his teeth. Dean’s hands flutter over Sam’s hair, without sinking in, skim over his shoulders, without scratching their way. Uncertain. Sam loves to lave attention on his brother, but if he doesn’t hold Dean down he’ll fly away. (shy bird)

Dean wants to be held down. (Sam’s convinced himself of this a long time ago, he can’t remember by now if Dean actually told him that or he figured it out on his own – he figures a lot of things out on his own). When he drags wide hands up the curve of Dean’s back and around to settle on narrow freckled shoulders, gives the slightest push, Dean sinks to his knees so easy and busies his hands on the belt of Sam’s jeans.

Reaching up to pull his tee over his head, amulet settling back at it’s spot over his breastbone, lifting his hips so Dean can drag his jeans down, the mattress sinks and creaks under his weight still shifting and Dean’s already got his mouth on Sam’s cock, hard since Dean tucked the panties over his lap instead of pushing them away.

Plush lips stretch wide around him, and if Dean gets too uncomfortable with the nice things Sam wants to say to him (can’t say them back) then he puts his mouth to use other ways and Sam forgets quick enough. Can’t do much else but stare at those pink lips stretched wide around him, glass green eyes almost gone dilated to black.

Dean’s soft almost-blond hair falls to the tops of his ears, gives him cover to hide behind when he wants to sulk, but it’s perfect for Sam to tangle his fingers into and tug. Down a little farther. A little harder. A little faster. And all Dean’s fidgety restlessness eases into complacent pliancy under Sam’s hand, hard clay whetted and worked loose, bony arms draped over Sam’s lap and shoulder blades jutting out like wings as he collapses.

Jerking his hips into the wet heat of his brother’s mouth, Sam rocks off the bed and stands with cock still pushing forward, backs Dean up against the other bed and braces him against it to push harder. Looming over him, Dean’s legs folded under and arms flailing back to steady against the bed, Sam cradles his skull and angles him just right to sink into the familiar clutch of his throat. Dean whimpers, quiet noises, long eyelashes fluttering shut as his throat works around Sam, spit trickling out the corners of his mouth. Drip, down his chest, drip, wet into the dip of his navel, and those soft pink panties are stretching tight over Dean’s straining cock as Dean’s pink mouth stretches around Sam’s cock.

He’s made for this.

(contortionist – fits into Sam’s box)

Sam’s honestly not sure where it all goes. (eleven inches, they’ve measured each other a few times over the years, Dean is catching up). Dean grips onto his hips, pulls closer, cheeks sucked in hollow, his whole face turning cherry red from not breathing. Sam pushes. Fucks into his brother’s open throat until Dean’s button nose is squashed to his pubis, eyes watering, whole body squirming when his head is held still.

Letting go, Sam pulls him off enough to suck air through his nose, Dean swirling his tongue around what’s left in his mouth, jaw wide. Thrusting shallowly, one hand tight in Dean’s hair, Sam cups his face with the other, thumb tracing the taut pull of his lips and wiping the spit from his chin. Back and forth, go again, shoving deep and fucking the life out of his throat, pull back, it’s a system. When tears actually roll down the freckled curve of Dean’s cheeks, Sam pulls out and brushes his thumbs over the tracks. “Shh, baby, you good?”

“M’not a baby,” Dean grumbles, swats Sam’s hand away and cranes forward towards his bobbing dick, thick line of spit still connecting them, “c’,mon Sammy don’t –“

Sam steps back and heaves Dean up, hands under his arms, twists him around to fling him onto the bed. Dean squawks and bounces when he lands, tries to twist around, but Sam pounces after him and gets him pinned face down. Dean tries to pull a wrestling move, and maybe he’s damn good with people in his own weight class but his bony elbows and telegraphed moves aren’t a match for Sam. One hand clasped over the back of his neck, nudging his thighs apart, Sam settles between the bow of warm thighs and holds his weight down against Dean.

“Are you going to be good for me?”

(Dean always is, even when he isn’t)

“Fuck you –“

The rest gets muffled in the musty flower patterned comforter when Sam pushes him down hard. Rearing back, curled over Dean like a question mark, Sam holds him still with one hand while the other glides down his back. Fingers bumping over the knobs of vertebrae, thumbs pressed to the indentations flanking his spine, palm spanning over the soft pink satin tight across his perky little ass. Sam’s already drooling, just thinking about it. Dean gives minimal fight (it’s all for show), ends up tilting his hips higher, spreading his legs wider.

Raking blunt nails down Dean’s back, Sam lets go of his neck and pulls his panties down instead. Shuffling lower on the bed, feet dangling off when he kneels behind his brother, pink satin pulled to mid thigh and Dean’s bared to him. Soft, smooth, little pucker of his hole and his balls hanging down as Dean pushes up on his hands. Twists around –

“Dude, come on, that’s dirty.”

Prissy, prissy. Sam spreads his pale cheeks with hands big enough to completely engulf them, spits. Right on the mark. Watches a shiver judder up Dean’s spine as he drops his chest back to the bed and buries his face in the sheets as Sam buries his face in his brother. God. He loves this part. Dean might gripe that it’s gross - Sam’d never ask him to reciprocate - but his brother just falls apart underneath his mouth like a knot comes loose in him, unspooling.

Sam had got his tongue in his brother before anything else. Too young, really, to understand. But it felt so good to rub against each other, little hands grasping, warm under the sheets, comfortable and safe. Felt good, to sate curiosity and seek understanding. Kissing was natural, an easy imitation. (don’t people kiss when they love each other). Sam wanted to kiss Dean everywhere. Wanted to press his love into his brother’s skin, pull out whatever Dean was hiding underneath, strip away shyness and restless insecurity to get at the pink pink insides between Dean’s legs, parted mouth, under his ribs where he held something close and secret just for Sam.

Kissing the tight starburst that flutters under his tongue, soft pink still, there’s a little nest of curls at the base of Dean’s cock but he’s so smooth here, Sam licks from the seam of his balls up to the base of his spine in long flat drags of his tongue. Dean twitches underneath him, stutters little moans he tries to hide, thighs as wide as they can be with the panties still midway down. Sam likes them. Bright pop of color against Dean’s skin.

Little pink briefs, should be reminiscent of innocence but satin and lace is too sensual to be anything but seduction. They seem to make Dean curl in to himself in this shyness that Sam thought he’d lost already. (he’s trying so hard to grow up as quick as he can)

Slicked with spit, fever hot, Sam squirms his tongue past the tight muscle when it keeps quivering under him like it’s inviting him in. Hands kneading into the taut muscle of Dean’s ass, pressing deeper, he gets inside and greedily pushes for more. Dean pushes back. Grinds himself against Sam’s face, hips rolling, muscle in his thighs clenched hard when Sam strokes his hands down, fingers stumbling over the twisted panties, to the ticklish backs of Dean’s knees and up over the swell of his ass. Can’t help roaming.

Wet suck-slurp of his mouth loud in the quiet motel room – a slam of the door next to them startles – and Dean’s breathing is ragged. Sam wants to get his fingers inside his brother, but he wants to watch Dean’s face, hasn’t been this vulnerable and taken apart for so long. It’s amazing what a little strip of pink fabric can do. Sam would have never thought. When Dean’s sloppy wet and loose around him, licked out with the curl of a long tongue, Sam pulls back and flips Dean over. Skinny legs stuck up in the air tangled, and his belly’s spattered wet. Cock still stiff but it’s pulsing a last drip when Sam slings both legs together over one shoulder.

“Baby –“

“Sammy,”

“So pretty.”

“Don’t…”

(don’t call him pretty but he’s got to know)

It’s second nature for Dean to get everyone wrapped around his fingers, wheedle sympathy out of his teachers or a free slice of pie out of diner waitresses. He knows just how to use his looks and he knows how other people see him, even if he doesn’t believe it himself.

Dragging fingers through the spunk on Dean’s belly, there’s got to be a wet spot under his back right now he’s so messy, always gets so wet. Sam licks it off as he bends over Dean. Legs folded up and aside, arms reaching out for him. Dean’s chest hitches when Sam licks up a stripe of come and ends on a nipple, precious pink buds puffy and soft on the flat expanse of his chest. Sam rolls one between his teeth and tugs, a little cruelly, tugs noises out of Dean like he’s wounded. Cock between them jerking eagerly. Sam’s so hard it aches, balls drawn up tight, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll take Dean apart piece by piece slow enough to ease him open, expose the tender rawness under the shell he’s been wrapping around himself. (scraped knuckles and split lips, Dean’s good at keeping people at a distance)

Spit and come wet fingers are slick enough at the lax sucked open hole between Dean’s legs, and Sam gets two worked inside while he leaves little blossom bruises across Dean’s chest sucking from one nipple to another. Dean writhes and gets his hands in Sam’s hair, quiet, ‘Jesus, Sammy, fuck, come on, fuck’.

(come closer, come inside brother)

Dean scratches across Sam’s shoulders and down his arms with short jagged nails, always broken, dirt and grease caked underneath. Even if it’s the middle of January, he’s been out in the snow tinkering under the Impala’s hood. He’s been working on the car for years, but now it’s his and weather be damned. He’s a fastidious boy, packs neat and fast, showers every morning and after every hunt (after sex too), but he can’t keep a little of the dirt and grease from staining under his nails.

It stings, furrows scraped over Sam’s skin, bony fingers digging in to the muscle. Sam twists over Dean, legs over his shoulder as he works his arm in a little see-saw motion that rocks Dean back and forth on his fingers. Dean hooks the backs of his knees over the curve of Sam’s right shoulder and squeezes, pulls himself up. One hand gone up above his head smacked loud on the motel wall to brace himself there as he watches Sam with bright wide eyes and open mouth.

Dean’s always watched him, always curious, followed his big brother around everywhere. (used to imitate Sam too, all the time, until he started imitating Dad). He watches, takes everything in, he’s a lot smarter than teachers will give him credit for. But his smarts apply to who-done-it murder mysteries and the best ways to kill things. Can’t exactly show that off in school.

Something gives, muscles easing around his fingers and Dean’s frantic scratch-scratch abates as he melts against the bed and moans shamelessly. Let’s his big brother take care of him. Sam’s gone too fast before, he’s careful now, he knows better. Three fingers spread and Dean opens around him easy, pink pink insides convulsing as he pushes Dean’s thighs against his belly to get a good look. The panties are still stretched tight between his thighs as Dean gets his hands on the back of them and pulls them up, see I’m ready, see. (look at him)

“Just a second…”

Sam scoots off the bed, eager cock tapping up against his belly as he shuffles back to his duffel and finds the near empty lube in there. Dean’s impatient, flighty thing, always wants what he wants when he wants it. Needs to learn impulse control. Sam’s not really the best teacher.

“Come on. Sammy.” Fingers twist up in the panties.

“No, I want to fuck you in them.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “M’not really wearing them anymore, they’ll just get in the way.”

“It’s perfect.”

It really is. The one bed is still strewn with guns and cleaning tools, Dean strewn on the other looking somehow too young and too old, comfortably splayed and hair mussed up, hands toying with the rucked satin.

Sam crawls up the bed and claps a hand over Dean’s, moves them away, rubs the fabric against Dean’s skin and listens to his little gasps. (it’s perfect)

The wet noise of his hand sliding down his cock slicking it has Dean watching, chest rising and falling with deep even breath, bottom lip bit between white white teeth. Sam kneels and presses Dean’s slender legs together to pull over one shoulder again, feel of soft satin against his skin not nearly as soft as Dean’s legs. Rubbing the head of his cock against the small twitching pucker, Dean wriggles and tries to get his hips higher in Sam’s lap. Curling over him, pressing forward, it never ceases to amaze Sam how wide his brother’s body opens, how deep it goes, silk sweet heat crushing around his cock as he sinks in.

Dean sucks in a breath, stomach concave as he stretches his lean torso and smiles. They can see Sam’s cock pushing out against the taut skin of his stomach and moving up to his navel slowly. (there used to be a ‘chestburster’ joke in there somewhere). Hips flush to Dean’s ass, Sam strokes his hands down the quivering of Dean’s thighs, gets one around the hard length of his cock and squeezes. Dean sucks his breath in, curling to pull his stomach in as tight and small as he can. They both watch.

(it always reminds him, the first time he pushed inside and Dean was so so small, Sam could put a hand down and feel himself moving under his brother’s skin and he was going to pull away - he was - but Dean wrapped around him venus fly trap tight with those skinny limbs and kept him)

Sam watches himself moving in his brother’s body, gaze wandering to the awe of Dean’s face. Dean’s got honeytrap lips and lolita eyes. Shame and guilt curl in Sam’s gut as hot as arousal and he’s been lost to this too long by now.

(let me closer, let me inside brother)

Grinding deep and pulling out halfway to sink slow, slow, until Dean starts to beg, Sam shifts to get his thighs spread and tilt Dean’s hips up. Fold him half, pin his knees to his chest. Dean’s eyes are still wet, chest messy with spit and bruises, but he curls his arms around Sam’s neck as he folds over Dean with his legs trapped. Sweat damp hair falling between them, Sam’s close enough to feel the heat of Dean’s breath as he pulls out far as he can to pound into his brother with a sharp snap of his hips.

Dean can’t do anything but hold on. Bed moaning under them and thudding against the wall with the force of Sam’s greedy hips fucking into his brother. Dean’s face twists up, all folded and scrunched like the rest of his body, deep furrows in his forehead and his lips restlessly forming incoherent expression. (contortionist’s face too) Sam still has one hand pressed across the back of Dean’s legs holding them down, all his weight, dense and wide and so much over Dean, pressing them together.

He makes Dean fucking wail. Body convulsing around him, sick squelch of too much lube, Dean locking up all tight muscle, flushed hot and sweaty under Sam. So deep in his body it’s just silk and the impression of pink – soft, soft, faded and washed out after image of red, a blush, a sigh, something perfect, something secret – and Sam’ll take it (wreck it), rough and desperate and it makes Dean wail.

Burying himself so deep like he could carve out a space just for him, stay there, Sam comes overwhelmed in the hot crush of Dean squeezing around his cock, pretty face screwed up and hands vice gripped on Sam’s shoulders. Shaking (Dean’s shaking too), Sam slides down to rest on his elbows, Dean doesn’t complain still folded up, slides his hands under the soft mess of Dean’s hair to cradle his head. Gently, reverently. Kiss his forehead, tip of his nose, each cheek – Dean’s too trapped to bitch about Sam’s little tender takings.

He turns into it though, turns it messy and hungry with his mouth seeking Sam’s, panting into each other and coming back down from the atmosphere. Sam’s muscles ache, his chest aches, lit up fever bright and there’s so much, too much, he can’t -

(he used to think this meant love, and Sam loves his brother but he’s not sure what _this_ means anymore)

Gingerly, Sam pulls out and back, rears up to his knees and lets Dean uncurl his legs. Dean’s chest is heaving, breath shuddering wetly. Splaying a hand over his ribs, heartbeat rabbit fast, Sam drags his fingers down to the mess on Dean’s shivering stomach and curls his fingers into the well worn groove of narrow hip.

“I’ll get a wash cloth.”

Dean huffs, “Shower.”

“Let me give you a bath?”

Dean plants his heels on the bed and arches his back, Sam watching (he doesn’t look at much but his brother).

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean curls his toes against the bed. “Okay.”

It’s a quiet soft thing, acquiescence to be taken care of. Even when Dad made them stop bathing together, more often than not Sam was the one next to the tub making sure the soap didn’t get in Dean’s eyes.

The bed sways and dips as Sam stands.

Dean breathes. Yawns.

(he can’t look away)

He sees it in plush lips swollen and the wet maw of his mouth, bright flush still round on his cheeks, it goes down, down, to the stiff buds of his nipples and in the blooming sucks marks that trail lower, the dripping head of his spent cock resting against his belly, hips push up, there, slick wet gape of his hole, and those stained ruined panties stretched between his thighs.

And it’s all Sam can see.

He feels it like the burn of too many broken promises, the sting of youth lost or taken, marks left on skin pressed under the weight of heavy things, the ache of fresh bruises, the heat of a blush, afterimages and blurry behind the eyelids can-you-see-the-patterns games, something ripe and tender.

And it’s all Sam can feel.

(pink)


End file.
